Assassin's Gift
by AvianInk
Summary: Natasha figures out a loophole to her and Bruce's no gifts rule.


**[A/N]** Happy New Year, all! Here's one more quick winter holiday piece before it's back to our (ir)regularly scheduled programming.

Be safe, and may you be surrounded with love. You deserve that. :)

* * *

When he blinks awake, Nat is clutching him to her. They fell asleep in the opposite position, with her enveloped in the shape of him.

So he could preserve her relaxed expression right now, he wishes his stirring wouldn't wake her. Even in her sleep, her face has an array of subtle yet diverse transformations, and he wonders if he'll ever see them all. Most common is the slight knit in her brows and straight-line mouth, which parts when she exhales; it gives the impression that she's thinking, analyzing even when she's supposed to be at rest.

What she wears now is different, however. It's one of his favorites—her lips completely slack, no tension anywhere, the most infinitesimal hint of a smile when she inhales. Completely succumbed to repose.

Regardless, she's still a lighter sleeper than he is (most of the time). Him turning over to take her in and tugging his chest out of the sheets is enough to rouse her.

In her waking, she realizes how she's holding him and doesn't shy away from it. Her grip curls into his waist, squeezes, then slides to his front. She discovers the morning through touch, through him.

He presses a kiss to her hairline, which gets a soft, "Mm," from her.

She's left with a soft grin and the sheets drawn up around her while he gets up and heads to the bathroom.

It'll be a regular morning and a pretty regular day, despite tonight being Christmas Eve. In his traditional fashion, Tony's hosting a get-together. It's likely to turn into a party, and it's more than likely Bruce and Natasha won't be there to partake. They'll be making their way to the Barton's, keeping a promise to Clint and Laura. That promise entails spending the holidays over there.

The Barton's during the winter holidays has slowly become tradition over the four years he and Nat have been together. It started with Christmas Day, expanded to that plus the night before, and they've simply stayed through New Year's the past two years. It's never felt like they're away from home, because he and Nat have found that in each other.

The thought of it—the fact—makes him smile at himself in the mirror as he brushes his teeth before a shower. Usually he'd eat something before the bathroom routine, but he's preparing his stomach for the gargantuan meals to come tonight and tomorrow.

After a quick glance, he averts his gaze from the mirror, focuses on the sink, and rinses as he mentally reviews what to pack. He doesn't even hear Nat pad up behind him. It's when arms slip around him and palms press to his chest that he notices.

His eyes dart back to the mirror in time to witness Nat's face tilt into his shoulder blade, leaving a kiss there. There's also something somewhat sticky underneath her hands.

When her palms retreat, a black Christmas bow shines in the glare of the bathroom lights. It's the friendliest assassin mark he's ever seen, and he can't help but laugh a little at the entirely unique sweetness of it.

"Wha—"

"You're my present," she says, so matter-of-fact.

They'd agreed on no gifts this year and the last. The decision arose for many reasons, but could be simplified to outside inquiring minds as, "We're not big on the holidays, and there's nothing we could really get each other." Gift-giving was difficult when they lived a life light on physical possessions and full of most other things they could want. They knew they were fortunate, and took this time of the year to be grateful for it.

So, by that logic, he supposes this technically doesn't break their no gifts rule.

With the fluff of ribbon still attached, he turns his back to the mirror. His eyes fall directly onto her, and the loving quip follows, "You're gonna need a bow too." The uninhibited joy that beams from her is more than enough. It's his new number one reason for no gift-giving—nothing could top this.

In complete seriousness this time, he tells her, "Thank you for seeing something in me."

Fingers warmed by his skin caress his neck. She murmurs, "Right back at you." Her mouth melds into his, and there's nothing else that needs to be said.

When their lips separate for a pause, he tilts his chin and points a question to his chest, "Why is it black?"

Her toughened finger-pads knead the base of his scalp. "It goes with everything."

"Does that mean I'm wearing it to Clint and Laura's?" He asks, willing to do it if it'll get her—and everyone else—to laugh.

She shrugs a tad. "If you want." Her hands return to his front. They remove the weak adhesive without pulling his chest hairs too much, and then they travel downward. What she says then confirms the mischief glinting in the look she gives him. "But you're not wearing it in the shower."


End file.
